Mad Intentions
by Pathatlon
Summary: Harry is in the Voldemort-controlled Azkaban to ensure he won’t run off while Voldemort decides how to deal with him. Walking between sanity and insanity Harry finds that madness itself can be a strength and power. One-Shot


So... the feelings he has are a bit... madding. I imagine it's sort of the mind you have as you slide between madness and sanity. Blurred.

One-Shot

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The prison fell quiet. Or his mind did, perhaps. He hoped that when that happened it meant that he was dead. But he knew better; or worse, perhaps. He was _not_ dead; but at the same time one might argue that he wasn't entirely alive either.

Harry lay on his back and bleakly stared up into the ceiling. The quietness was not a blessing to him; on the contrary. It merely meant that Voldemort was _kind_ enough to pull away the Dementors for a few hours, or days? To ensure he wouldn't go irreversibly mad; to make him suffer longer.

He listened briefly to his surroundings, but there were no other living noise save his own breathing. No one stayed at the prison but him; no one for longer periods, anyway. Sometimes there would be others; you could hear their screams easily through the hollow prison, but they were all killed quickly.

Not him, though. Not Harry. Voldemort's failed attempt at finding out the prophecy prevented the man, or whatever he was, from killing Harry. Voldemort's _curiosity_ kept him alive.

Harry often wondered if he should tell the man, just to get the screams to stop. He hadn't much to regret in his life, but his parents deaths, Cedric and Sirius would always replay in his mind.

One might think you'd get bored with it after a while. One might agree that you did. But that didn't lessen the screams, the pounding headaches and the general pain as you replayed the emotional events again and again… and again.

It just became a dull throbbing in your mind; detached.

Detached.

So much… nothingness, mused Harry. He looked around his cell with dull eyes. He shouldn't be here, but he knew there was no way for the Order to get him. Before him a bunch of muggles had been thrown in there, for _fun_, and he and the Order hadn't managed to save them before they were killed; impossible to break into, but apparently not impossible to break out from.

Dumbledore was dead and who knew what Ron and Hermione was doing, or if they were even alive. Harry, however, reasoned that he'd know they'd be dead since Voldemort would flaunt their bodies before him. No one, that he was aware, knew the prophecy but them and him.

It angered him. And yet it didn't.

Detached he rose from the _bed_. He moved hesitantly towards the small mirror above the sink and watched his image. Unhealthy and hollow.

He touched the mirror and felt the glass give away beneath his fingers, despite his touch being light from lack of strength.

Was this a dream? Or was he drunk? He felt a little… not entirely himself. He flexed his fingers before him and felt he was seeing through someone else's mind. Who was he?

He watched the mirror fell noisily to the ground and turned resigned towards the bars keeping him in. His touch made them fall apart and he stepped into the corridor. A magical alarm had gone off and two human wizards, guards when the Dementors were taking a break, rushed into the corridor at the other end.

One of them pressed his mark, alerting Voldemort of this break-out. The man didn't look worried, though, but he had probably been told to inform Voldemort if anything changed.

They advanced and this… detached feeling of needless pain washed through him. Why should he be hurt by the Cruciatus curse? Their intentional magic should be turned to his intentional magic the soon as they touched? Can anyone touch you if you don't want them to? And magic, being an intentional spell, couldn't it be turned intentionally into something else when it touched him? Couldn't it turn into…

Butterflies?

He saw the curse burst into hundreds of butterflies the moment it touched his skin. The feeling was warm, something he hadn't felt in a long while. Another curse was sent at him and curious and detached Harry raised his hand and watched the curse collide with his hand.

A numbing feeling flitted through his hand before his intentions overpowered it. He stared at his hand in mute fascination, barely watching as the two men stared worried at each other and him. Harry looked up at them as they both began to utter curses again.

Could his intentions overpower theirs? The curses flew towards him and he intended them to turn. And change.

The men fell to the ground; dead.

He stood watching them for a few seconds before he felt something stir a little above him. Voldemort had arrived.

Harry slowly, but deliberately, moved to greet Voldemort with his own intentions.

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